The way was long, though 'twas not cold
But the poor bard was weak and old,
And carried, scor'd upon his front,
Of many a year the long account.
His Fiddle sole remaining pride
Hung dangling down his ragged side,
In faded bag of flannel green,
Through which the well carv'd head was seen
Of gaping lion, yawning wide,
In regal pomp of beastly pride.
The last of all the race was he,
Who charm'd the ear with tweedle dee.
For lack-a-day! full well I ween
The happy times he once had seen,
When in the merry capering days
Of olden time he tun'd his lays,
'Mong gallant lads, or jolly sailors,
And play'd " the de'el among the tailors, "
Had given place to other glee,
And different strains of harmony.
" The bigots of this iron time
" Had called his harmless art a crime; "
And now, instead of dance and song
Pricking the night's dull pace along,
And sprightly gambols deftly play'd
By rustic lad and gleeful maid,
And all that decks the cheek of toil,
With nature's warm and heartfelt smile,
No sound is heard borne on the gale,
In village lone or rural dale,
But canting, whining, nasal notes,
Twanging through hoarse and foggy throats,
Ascending to the startled sky,
Mocking the ear of deity
With nonsense blasphemous and wild;
While wretches, of their peace beguil'd,
Scare the dull ear of drowsy night,
With screams that boding screech owls fright,
And hollow moans, that seem to flow
From damned souls in shades below.
Love-feasts are held at midnight's hour,
When fancy wields her potent power,
And to the trembling wretch's eyes
Sepulchres ope, and spectres rise,
Gaunt forms, and grisly shapes appear,
And sweet religion turns to fear.
A fiddler now, no wight so poor,
May beg his bread from door to door,
Nor tune to please a peasant's ear,
Those notes that blithe King Cole might hear.

A little dog with gentle speed,
Though not of black St. Hubert's breed,
Led by a string this man of woe,
Whose falt'ring steps, all sad and slow,
Seem'd hastening toward that long, long home,
Where rich and poor at last must come.
Why didn't that puppy walk behind?
Alas! the fiddler was stone blind,
And might not find his way alone
Ev'n though meridian sun had shone.
Betide him weal, betide him woe,
In summer heat or winter snow,
Or when the cutting midnight blast
Around the leafy forest cast,
And withering frost launch'd on the air
Laid the sweet face of nature bare;
When man and nature seem'd combin'd
With biting frost, and whistling wind,
To waste his poor remains of life
In anxious toil and fruitless strife;
Still that same dog ne'er shrunk the while
From nature's frown, or woo'd her smile;
But faithful to his wonted trust,
More true than man, than man more just,
He led the wight, from day to day,
Unharm'd through all his darksome way.
In lonely shed, at brightening blaze,
In dewy fields, or hard highways,
Or under branch of spreading tree,
Where'er his lodgings chanc'd to be,
Still that same little faithful guide,
Stretch'd at his feet or by his side,
While the poor houseless wanderer slept,
His guardian watch forever kept.

Now cross'd they noble Hudson's tide,
In steam boat, young Columbia's pride,
And meet it is the poet say
They paid no ferriage by the way.
Through Jersey city straight they wend,
And Bergen hill-tops slow ascend,
Whence he who is possessed of eyes
A gallant prospect often spies.
Far off, the noiseless ocean roll'd
A pure expanse of burnish'd gold;
And nearer, spread a various view
Of objects beautiful and new;
Fair Hackinsack, Passaick smooth,
Whose gentle murmurs sweetly sooth;
And Newark bay, and Arthur's sound,
And many an island spread around,
Like fat green turtles fast asleep,
On the still surface of the deep.

And Gotham might you see, whose spires
Shone in the sun like meteor fires.
The vessels lay all side by side,
And spread a leafless forest wide;
And now and then the Yo, heave O,
Borne on the breeze, all sad and slow,
Seem'd like the requiem of trade,
Low in its grave for ever laid,
Here, roll'd along in matchless pride,
Old Hudson's stream is seen to glide;
Majestic in its noble course
It springs a river at its source!
A thousand vessels plough its tide,
A thousand beauties deck its side,
A thousand products gem its fields,
Ten thousand various goods it yields;
And white along its glorious way
The villages so new and gay,
All scatter'd here and there are seen,
On rising hill or level green.

Winding their way in silent toil,
O'er bridge, through turnpike-gate, and stile,
Our weary travellers pass'd along,
Cheer'd by the wild wood's merry song,
Till faint with hunger, tir'd and lame,
With blistered feet they faltering came
To where old Princeton's classic fane,
With cupola, and copper vane,
And learning's holy honours crown'd
Looks from her high hill all around,
O'er such a wondrous fairy scene,
Of waving woods and meadows green,
That sooth to say, a man might swear,
Was never seen so wondrous fair.

Here many a sign-post caught the view
Of our poor dog, whose instinct knew
Those fanes, by wandering minstrels sought,
Where liquor may be begg'd or bought.
In quick succession rose to view,
The mason's square and compass true,
The checker-board, the crossing keys,
And, waving in the poplar trees,
The uncork'd bottle, spouting beer
Into the tumbler standing near,
With curve so graceful, yet so just,
That not a single drop is lost,
But here stern bigotry abides,
Which lovely charity derides,
Save, that which vulgar bosom wins,
That which at home with self begins.
Fiddling and dancing they abhorr'd,
And drove the minstrel from their board.
Sadly he felt that trying hour,
For now approach'd the summer shower;
The muttering thunder rolling far
Made windows rattle with rude jar,
Blue lightnings o'er the dark cloud sprung,
Like serpents with their forked tongue;
The patient beast, the hurrying man,
With headlong haste for shelter ran,
And nought that might a shelter find,
Brav'd the rude storm, and rushing wind.
The old man rais'd his sightless eye
To Him who rules the earth and sky;
And seem'd from out that sightless ball,
A tear of hard reproach to fall,
That H E , who gave the snake a home,
Should leave blind men thus sad to roam —
Perchance that drop fell from the sky,
For now the pattering shower was nigh,
And those dark eyes had long been dry.
Even now he reach'd the welcome door
That ne'er was shut aginst the poor,
Where lord Joline his merry cheer,
Deals out to all from far and near.
With hesitating step at last
The ample gate he slowly pass'd;
The lady saw his weary pace,
His matted beard, his furrow'd face,
Mark'd how his glassy eye-balls glar'd,
Yet no intelligence appeared;
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well,
And careful be of that same dog
Who with the minstrel on did jog.

When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was satisfied,
Began to rise the Fiddler's pride.
His elbow itch'd to quaver now;
The little dog, cried bow, wow, wow,
And wagg'd his tail to hear again
The music of some well known strain.
The minstrel 'gan to prate anon,
Of Archy Gifford — dead and gone,
Of good John Gifford — rest him God —
A stouter ne'er at training trod.
And would the beauteous lady deign,
To listen to his lowly strain,
Though tir'd with walking many a mile,
And worn with hunger, thirst, and toil,
He did'nt know, he could'nt tell,
Perchance the strain might please her well.
The gracious lady with a smile,
Glad thus the evening to beguile,
Granted the minstrel's lowly suit,
And gave the wight a dram to boot.
And now he said he would full fain,
He could recall an ancient strain
He never thought to sing again;
It was not fram'd for common swine,
But such high lords as John Joline.
He once had play'd for John Gifford,
Till he fell asleep, and loudly snor'd,
And much he long'd yet fear'd to try
The sleep compelling melody.

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd
As if an harp he oft had play'd,
But sooth to say he shook his head;
Yet soon he caught the measure true,
Of Yankey doodle — doodle doo!
And pleas'd to find he'd found the strain,
Warm transport seem'd to fire his brain;
The fiddle with his chin he press'd,
The fiddle press'd against his breast,
His fingers o'er the cat-gut stray'd,
His elbow work'd, and work'd his head,
And as he dol'd the jingling rhyme,
With thundering rout his foot kept time.
They thought the devil was in the man,
When the Last Fiddler thus began.